


Many Happy Endings

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Arse fetish, Bisexual John Watson, Bottom John, Crack, Humour, I...don’t know, Implied Jolto, John is thirsty, M/M, Massage, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Smut, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 17:04:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18319577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: “Captain Watson,” I say. “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”“Well.” Sherlock nods decisively. “Captain Watson. There are robes and towels over there. We’re going to start with your body facing downwards. Undress to your level of comfort. I’ll be back in a few minutes to see about helping you...relax.”I can’t really help it that I blush when he says the word “undress.” I can’t really help but briefly wish he were the one undressing me.





	Many Happy Endings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bottomjohns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottomjohns/gifts).



> I don’t really know what happened. I spent like 5 seconds on this, so apologies if it seems rushed and lacking my usual descriptiveness.
> 
> Um...enjoy it anyway?

It’s been a long time since I’ve been touched.

Painfully long. Embarrassingly long. Months. Not since James. And definitely not since returning from the military.

Though I’ve never done this before, I try not to overthink it. I end up settling for a blue, loose cotton shirt and khaki trousers, and I take the tube to get there. I arrive ten minutes prior to my appointment. The waiting room is tinged green with floral designs on the walls, and the smell of balms and essential oils stings the air. I sink back into the plush, comfortable armchair, pick up a magazine with some sort of sciencey thing on the cover, and I wait.

I’m not nervous. Why should I be nervous?

Not nervous at all, I nearly bounce out of my seat when I hear a low, smooth, posh voice call out my name from across the waiting room.

“John Watson?”

My eyes shoot up to look at the purveyor of that voice, and oh.

Oh. Well. I’m definitely fucked.

 

***

 

“You really ought to get that shoulder checked, mate,” Mike Stamford says over his pint of Guinness. He gestures towards me, his round, bespectacled face displaying good-natured concern.

It’s a Tuesday evening; the pub Mike chose is dimly lit and oddly packed for a weeknight. The walls display jerseys of various colours and sports; the barstools are high and uncomfortable. A small crew of drunk university students cheers loudly at the rugby game in the background, and my pint is almost empty, and the bartender is nowhere to be found, and I wish to myself that I’d spent the night at home.

“Yeah,” I say with a sip of beer and a sardonic twist of the mouth. “I’ve had it professionally evaluated, actually. Turns out I got shot.”

I’ve only been back from my military assignment for a couple of weeks. My therapist says I should reach out to old friends, for some reason. I haven’t listened to her ridiculous bollocks, of course. But when I ran into Mike, my old uni classmate, and he invited me for drinks, I knew Ella would yell at me if I said no.

So here we are. Screaming at one another over drinks, but in a friendly manner, since the pub is louder than a bloody minefield at the moment.

Mike snorts a laugh, and immediately apologises. “Not trying to make light of your war injury, Watson. But that’s not actually what I was referring to.”  

“Then what are you talking about?”

“You’ve been rubbing your shoulders all evening,” he points out. “You’re hunched over. Carrying an ungodly amount of tension in yours shoulders and neck; anyone with a medical background could tell, and probably most people without one. Can’t be good for you.”

Only then do I notice my hand absentmindedly rubbing against my neck, and I pull it away quickly in an effort to gain credibility.

“You ought to give my masseur a call,” Mike suggests.

“Masseur?” I ask loudly.

Mike nods. “Started going to him last year, after I had a minor automobile accident. He’s done wonders for my neck.”

“He?”

“Yeah. He. Don’t worry. I thought it might be weird too, you know, at first. Being touched that intimately by a bloke. But don’t worry. Sherlock’s a professional. And his hands are magic, I promise you. He makes it all very comfortable.”

_Sherlock._

Here’s something about me. I most definitely enjoy the intimate touch of a woman, but not any more or less than I enjoy the intimate touch of a man.

And that’s just in the bedroom.

And if this bloke’s got “magic hands,” as Mike says, I’m not against the idea of being touched for therapeutic purposes.

The next day, I call to make the appointment.

 

***

 

Sherlock’s not beautiful in a traditional sense; in fact, his appearance is quite unusual. Upon first glance, his beauty isn’t obvious or apparent. One might need to blink a few times to appreciate the drastically high cheekbones, the almond-shaped eyes with wide irises of a sea-green colour. He’s tall; his frame is lanky, but topped off by a smooth, ivory neck that seems to stretch for miles.

His mouth is what does it, though. Heart-shaped, full and dusky lips; so perfectly-formed, it’s as if they were created to be some sort of caricature, though it doesn’t look the slightest bit ridiculous on him. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.

I find myself licking my own lips, just to remember what they feel like.

Dark, silky curls cascade over his angular face, and I can’t help but be reminded of an abstract painting; jagged angles and unexpected features all coming together to make something breathtaking.

“John Watson?” he repeats, his eyebrow arched, and I pull myself from my reverie. God. How long had I been staring at him, exactly?

I fumble upwards to stand in front of the chair. “Y-yes, that’s, I’m him,” I mutter.

He holds his hand out to shake mine, and not only is his grip sturdy, but his hands are unbelievably soft; his fingers long and languorous and they’re going to be roaming all over my body soon, and—

“Nice to meet you,” he says with a cordial smile. “I’m Sherlock. I’ll be taking care of you today.”

I let go of his hand, and I hope I’m only groaning on the inside.

“N-nice to meet you too,” I say dumbly.

“We’re going to be in the back. Room three,” Sherlock says, gesturing towards the hallway. “Follow me.”

He leads me into a candle-lit room with a massage table. Soft music plays in the background, and an assortment of various oils are layed out, along with a robe and a few thick, white towels.

Fuck. I can’t stop staring at his hands.

I can’t stop staring at his mouth.

“How can I help you today?” he asks, gazing down at me with his magnificent eyes.

“I, er. My shoulder was shot when I was in the military. Recently returned and I’ve been very tense. Was hoping you could help me relax.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says with an eyebrow raise. “Military, hm?”

“Captain Watson,” I say. “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“Well.” Sherlock nods decisively. “Captain Watson. There are robes and towels over there. We’re going to start with your body facing downwards. Undress to your level of comfort. I’ll be back in a few minutes to see about helping you...relax.”

I can’t really help it that I blush when he says the word “undress.” I can’t really help but briefly wish he were the one undressing me.

 

***  

 

I have no idea how much clothing to take off. I mean. I know how much I want to take off. But do I just go for it?

I eye the oils on the table next to me, and I think about the oil mixing with my shirt, or even my boxers.

I decide it’s probably better for me to be totally nude. It’s really only for the sake of my clothes.

I pull off my shoes and my socks, slide my shirt off and pull my trousers and underwear down and hang them up on a hanger on the wall.

My body feels hot.

I scope myself out in the mirror. I’m not unattractive; I’ve still got the muscle from my military training, and the beer gut, though starting to return, hasn’t really shown up much quite yet.

I run my finger over my bullet wound. Looks good, I tell myself. Makes me look like a badass.

He’d called me Captain Watson. 

I get chills.

After grabbing a towel, I lay myself down onto the bed and cover my backside with the towel.

I try to regulate my breathing.

“Control yourself, Watson,” I say. “This is a friend of Mike’s. He’s a perfectly nice gentleman. Maybe he’s going to rock your world, but not in the way you’d like. Just take a breath, and relax.”

There’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I squawk.

The lights are dim, and my face is down in the massage table, so I can’t see anything that’s going on, which I decide is a good thing. Not being able to see him is probably pretty helpful in calming my nerves, and my hormones.

He tells me something about the different types of essential oils he’s got, and I make a selection based on what his voice sounds the sexiest uttering.

“We’ll start with your shoulders,” he explains. “Try and relieve some of the pressure there, and then work our way down your spine, past the gluteal muscles, and then work on your legs.”

Gluteal muscles?

He’s going to touch my arse.

“Sounds good,” I mumble.

The moment he touches my shoulders, I turn to putty in his hands. I hold back a deep, satisfied groan, but only barely.

“You are remarkably tense,” he says.

“Ngh,” I reply.

My skin is sparking, my muscles feel amazing. As he pays attention to my shoulders and neck, I feel the tension pour off of me. His fingers roam up my neck and ruffle my hair, and the chills it sends down my spine nearly send me through the table and to the floor.

I shiver.

His hands make their way down my spine, deep and kneading, until they reach my lower back, just above where the towel is wrapped. He spends a few minutes there; reaching down into the tissue of with his fingers and his elbows, and it feels out of this world.

I’m relaxed. This is going to be fine. I’m nearly asleep, in fact.

Then, his hands are roaming over my arse, pressing down into the gluteal muscles, and I’m awake.

It’s not indecent. He’s simply massaging my muscles; in the way (I’m sure) any masseuse would.

“Try and relax,” he says. “It can be strange at first, but it’s normal.”

I exhale.

He presses into my gluteal muscles, over and over and over. His hands begin to slide up and down, kneading and pressing and paying quite a bit of attention to that part of my body, and it feels absolutely incredible. As he proceeds, it feels nearly tender, reverent, worshipful.

I try to ignore that.

His fingers roam down to my thighs, and I think, for half a second, that I might feel one of his fingers grazing over my testicles.

Surely, I’m imagining it.

But then it happens again. And again, and again.

His hands wander up to my lower back again, and to my thighs, but after everything else, they keep returning to my arse. It seems as though he has a clear preference for that area, and I’m not complaining.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and my groan of pleasure is the only response.

“These muscles seem to be quite tense, too,” he says. “I’d like to spend more time on them, if you don’t mind.”

God, yes.

“I don’t mind,” I say.

“I’m going to get the massage oil and do some work with that. Will that be okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply, because there’s really no other answer.

I sort of know that he’s going to need to remove the towel from me, and that I’ll be completely nude. But it doesn’t feel real, until it is.

He pours warm oil onto the skin there, and I can feel his fingers working through it. His hands slide down my buttocks, up and down and up and down, for minutes on end. It’s almost obsessive, the way he continues to concentrate on that area.

I’m obsessed with the way it feels.

I can feel my cock hardening against the massage table.

***  

He spreads my arse cheeks open, inching his way deeper and deeper and closer to my arsehole.

“And would you like this to be massaged as well?” he asks lowly.

“Yes,” I hoarsely reply.

His oiled finger rubs circles around my opening, slides up over my perenium as his other hand comes up to give attention to my balls. I can no longer hold back the low, coarse groan that escapes from my throat.  

“More?” he asks.

I don’t know what he means, exactly. I just know I don’t want him to stop.

“More,” I gasp.

His thumb breaches my hole, and I cry out with the burning pleasure mixed with pain. “Oh, god,” I gasp, rutting against the table.

He works his slickened finger to the first knuckle, and then the second, until I cry out when he brushes against my prostate, massaging that as well.

I bite my lip, hard. I’m nearly holding back tears.

“More?”

“God, yes, more,” I breathe.

He works in a second finger, and a third, stretching me, slick and open like I’ve never been stretched before.

“More?” he asks a final time.

“More.”

I hear the rustling sound of his clothing hitting the floor. Feel him climb onto the table, his legs wrapping around mine.

“On your knees, Captain,” he murmurs, and I obey.

I can hear the wet, slick sound of oil against his skin before his hands firmly settle onto my hips. He pulls me in, and I feel his hard cock against my arsehole. Not quite in, but sliding against it, so, so close.

“Okay?” he asks.

I don’t reply; I only careen my body backwards, drawing his penis into my puckering hole. All goes quiet. He slowly, slowly inserts himself into me, and I back onto him greedily.

And he begins to move his hips. Slowly, at first, and then he picks up the pace. Ramming his body into mine, I hear the dirty wet sound of the massage oil, the pounding of skin against skin. He fucks me and fucks me until he comes, crying out a gurgled version of my name.

He kisses my shoulder before flipping me over on my back.

I am amazed by how beautiful he is. I’d almost forgotten; my breath nearly escapes my body.

I kiss him.

He wraps his hand around my cock, slippery and skillful, and jerks me off until I reach the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever experienced.

As my head falls back against the pillow, and I slowly return to earth, I open my eyes and see him gazing down at me.

“I’m going to need to thank Mike,” I say, because _that_ is apparently the type of pillow talk one gets from John Watson.

“And what about _me?”_ he asks with a coy smirk. “Don’t you think I deserve some gratitude for that?”

“Actually,” I say. “Yes. Let me take you out on a proper date.”

He smiles down at me, and it’s radiant. “I’ve got a client right now,” he says. “But I’m off at 8. Meet me out front.”

“Perfect,” I say, leaning upwards to kiss him soundly, firmly, and with plenty of tongue.

And as I leave the massage parlour, I take my mobile phone out of my pocket and send a message to Mike.

_Thanks for the recommendation, mate. He took great care of me. -John_

_I figured he would :) - Mike_

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for bottomjohns. I always told myself that the first time I write a toplock fic, I’d dedicate it to you. 💜


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